


Red Dead Redemption

by drunkbea



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 07:17:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunkbea/pseuds/drunkbea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has six shotgun shells left, his friends are dead and he’s running like a headless chicken over the ruins of America being chased by the undead. Michael Jones is not having a good day. Based on the first Red Dead Redemption Let’s Play video.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Dead Redemption

He slams the butt of his gun into the bitch’s head and scrambles out of the undead dog piling on top of him. The stench of rotten flesh clings to his clothes and flesh but hey, when you’ve been getting up close and personal with zombies, he should be allowed a little leeway, Michael thinks.

It’s hard to smell like a bunch of daisies in the midst of a zombie apocalypse after all.

“Michael! Thank god you survived!” Gavin shouts as he desperately guns down the hunters on his trail.

“I’m Mogar! What’dya expect?!” he screams his reply and the relief at having someone alive, even if it’s his idiot boy, drowns out the irritation that would otherwise occupy his words. Michael turns around and shoots another god damned zombie down, and manages to spare a glance for Gavin.

Just in time to see him get bitten and turn into one of them brainless monsters.

_Fuck._

He’s alone now. Alive but alone. This shouldn’t be happening. They held up so well, with the mysterious blessings of Death and her coffins. Bullet after bullet, headshot after headshot, they promised to get out together. And for one glorious moment, it seemed like they could but no he’s alone, and what’s the point of being alive when his best friends, his _family_ are de—

_Get it fucking together Michael, since when did the mighty Mogar give up to a bunch of dead people?_

Michael nods and grits his teeth, his conscience is right and Michael has to survive. Get to higher ground, he thinks, zombies hate elevation. Swerving around, he fires a rapid stream of bullets into the hoard. The gun clicks as a boomer spits a florescent green wad at him, he barely barrel rolls out of the way and the ground is painfully hard beneath him. Blood drips down his calf as the stones and shrapnel dig into his legs. 

It hurts, it hurts everywhere, his legs, his arms, _his heart_. There’s nothing where something used to be, and it feels like he’s dying. Every breath he inhales feels like acid is filling up his lungs and he can’t hear anything anymore except the thudding of his heart. There’s only one thing keeping his breaking body from collapsing and that is the promise of high ground. The hill’s right ahead and he could, maybe, perhaps reach it once he conquers the ruins.

Hopefully, Michael prays, zigzagging through crumbled walls and collapsed pillars, he’ll be able to lose some of those zombies along the way. But fate and destiny play a high stakes game so of course Michael has to follow one of the oldest clichés in the book. 

He trips.

Something (Michael knows what it is but denying makes surviving easier) claws at his boots and he can feel sharp teeth gnawing at the leather. Frantically, he twists on the ground, trying to put a good shot into this bastard’s head. The rest are swiftly approaching and Michael needs to run, now.

His gun is empty.

_Shit on a dick._

Swatting his useless gun at the zombie’s head proves ineffective this time and it only serves to make the carrion bite harder at his boots. Death is approaching so fast, Michael can barely keep up. He wants to die but not like this, not eaten by this butt-ugly, rotting monster. Desperately, he looks around for something anything to save him.

_Sliver glinting in the light._

Michael lunges at them, dragging the zombie with him. The seconds slow and blur as he recognises the limp hand curled around the bullets. The golden wedding band, the hand that assembled and disassembled guns faster than he could blink. 

Geoff.

Something wet drips down his cheeks and his vision is inconveniently blurry, Michael’s heart is till beating but he’s a dead man walking. Nothing really matters anymore, as he grabs the bullets from his dead mentor’s hand and reloads his shotgun. 

It is a clean shot through the monster’s head mirroring the one on Geoff’s head. The fact that Geoff was killed before he could fully turn should be comforting but it feels oddly perverse and sacrilegious. Geoff was the first to fall, Michael remembers, and also the first team mate Michael had to kill.

It seemed that even in death, that old fool would be helping him.

He’s up and running again in mere moments, ankle throbbing painfully but still miraculously _unfortunately_ alive.

Michael clears the ruins just as the new wave of zombies rise from the ground, thankfully, behind the existing hoard. The setting sun makes the hill looks gorgeous, Michael muses, twisting his body a little to shoot some undead into real dead.

It’s just empty plains left, and then he’ll reach his destination.

It’s oddly poetic, Michael realises, mentally counting the shotgun shells he has left, the orange glow of the setting sun giving the grey plains a life of its own. The world feels like it’s being born again in flames, crimson, green and blue dancing Michael’s swan song. The zombies burning in phosphorus flames made a nice touch, in Michael’s opinion, the boomer bile…not so much. 

The number of shotgun shells left make Michael sigh and wonder briefly why he even bothered surviving this long.

He has six shotgun shells left, his friends are dead and he’s running like a headless chicken over the ruins of America being chased by the undead. Michael Jones was not having a good day and that was a fucking understatement.

Finally, _finally_ , he reaches the base of the hill when a fucker tackles him from the back. Michael snarls and in his panic, stupidly empties his all his shotgun shells into the bastard. The asshole is dead but Michael is now weapon-less and there’s a bloody stampede rushing at him. 

That idiot Gavin is leading them. 

Evidently, he’s the fastest as before Michael can even get up, Gavin is on him, snarling and teeth bared. It’s not fair, that his boy whom he tried so hard to keep alive, who managed to keep him alive, who promised that they’d always be together, was now trying to rip his arm off.

There’s no hope. The poison’s coursing through his veins and at the rate the zombies were approaching, he’d be eaten before he’d turn. But at this point, Michael really doesn’t want to give up without a fight. Desperation fuels his dying mind and an idea springs into existence.

Gavin was human once, Gavin was a fighter once. 

That meant that somewhere on him could be dynamite. It’s a farfetched idea, even for Michael and there should be no way that Gavin wouldn’t have already thrown it to save his arse but Michael was a foolish man and he was determined to fight to the death. Gritting his teeth, he lets his right hand be bitten to bits as his left desperately searches for something.

For once, luck is on his side.

As he snatches the dynamite from Gavin’s body, his foot lashes out and manages to kick the bloody idiot away from him. Thankfully, his right hand is still functional, if barely, and Michael lights the dynamite with shaky hands.

The irony of Team Nice Dynamite is not entirely lost to Michael.

The fuse is rapidly approaching the red and Gavin is launching himself at Michael again, the rest of the zombies have already reached and Michael closes his eyes as they claw at him.

_I’m coming home, guys._

Michael is glad that at least he will go out fighting, he was the mighty Mogar after all, and with him, the world wouldn’t end with a whimper but with a --  
 _Bang._


End file.
